


Guard Duty

by SkartoArgento



Series: Drabbles [4]
Category: Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: I mean the exact opposite, Kissing, M/M, PWP, Party, The opposite of a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 21:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12155529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkartoArgento/pseuds/SkartoArgento
Summary: Adam pulls guard duty for one of Sarif's parties and Pritchard decides to keep him company.





	Guard Duty

 

On the balcony, high enough so the wind tugged at his coat and hair, Adam leaned his elbows on the railing and exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke into the night. Behind him, a burst of laughter punctured the low buzz of conversation, dulled somewhat by the wall of glass. The subtle bass of some song vibrated through his shoes, picked up by the sensors in his augmented feet.

The last time he'd endured Sarif's birthday soiree, his feet had been human, just like the rest of him, and Megan floated at his side in a dress of crimson silk. Dammit, he could still see her smile, brighter than the lights overhead.

Smoke dragged back into his lungs. His rebreather, alerted to the presence of toxic fumes, kicked in with a pinged message to his HUD. Warmth spread through his chest.

When he'd stepped out onto the balcony, a couple he didn't recognise took one look at his hands, the image processors at the side of his eyes, and the C.A.S.I.E stamp on his forehead, and stopped their drunken slow-dancing to gawk. A crowd of younger guys fell silent for a few moments – long enough for him to know what they thought. He ignored C.A.S.I.E's conversation suggestions, stalked to the railing and glared down at Detroit from behind his eye shields. A few minutes later, startled out of thoughts by Sarif's bellow of humour, he'd turned, and the balcony was empty.

The urge to walk back into the hall, to track down the couple and the group of assholes and ask them if they thought Sarif's guard dog would bite, burned so strongly that fear doused it out almost immediately.

Not that kind of person. Pricks like that shouldn't – _didn't_ – affect him.

A soft click of door, and the volume increased, Sarif's raised voice above everything, then hushed back to a muted rumble with another click.

Car lights rushed against the black below. He took the last drag of his last cigarette and flicked the dying glow to join the cars. Waited. Footsteps clicked across paving, stopped at his side. Cyber-optics picked up movement at the corner of his eyes. He didn't have to wait long for a certain someone to start talking.

“Look who escaped the debacle of trying to find a decent suit for this thing.”

He turned, the proper words to irritate on the tip of his tongue, but they all failed before they made it past his lips.

Between various colours of turtleneck and the occasional hoodie, Pritchard's dress sense at work seemed to fall firmly in the category of 'I don't give a shit' – a studded belt, for God's sake, like a teenager – but Sarif never cared about things like that. In a dark suit, Pritchard gained a few angles previously hidden under that motorcycle jacket and those baggy pants, looked more like an actual person. The first couple of buttons of a white shirt lay open, just to squeeze in a slight edge of defiance, and a leather belt replaced studs.

His own confusion sent C.A.S.I.E into an intrusive flurry across his vision, besieged him with heart rate, biochemical analysis, and the option to send out pheromones. Probably rude to do that at a party.

A drink in each hand, Pritchard gestured back to the inside of the building with a shrug of shoulder. “I'm surprised Sarif hasn't been showing you off like a prize hound all night, especially with the London contingent putting in an appearance. Or did you manage to escape?”

He shifted, tore his eyes away from the suit and stared back over the rail. “I pulled security.”

“Well, you've done a _wonderful_ job of securing the balcony. I feel very safe.”

He snorted, but it sounded more like amusement than derision. “I'm tired of waiting around for something to happen. No men with guns, no bomb threats... I'd rather be in there at the bar.”

“Yes, then instead of being moody and silent out here, you could be moody and silent in _there_. Besides, I brought you a drink.” In the half-darkness, Pritchard's eyes were steel, steady on his face.

 _Pupil dilation,_ C.A.S.I.E supplied.

Some augs were more trouble than they were worth.

He reached for the offered drink, some fruity cocktail mix in a highball glass, probably far stronger than it tasted, and hesitated before his hand made contact. “Sarif –”

“Is regaling Darrow with various boring baseball tales, and therefore not looking this way.” Pritchard's mouth twitched into something like a smile. “He's just got past the 'one time we had to chase a dog around the field' story, so he'll be a while. In any case,” ice cubes tinkled gently against the glass when Pritchard tilted it in his direction, “why shouldn't you have a drink? You can't get very drunk anyway.”

“Yeah. That damn health implant.” Fifteen minutes of being tipsy wasn't enough to justify a whole bottle of whiskey, but old habits were hard to break. Especially after the attack on the labs.

The tips of Pritchard's fingers brushed his when he took the glass, the lightest pressure his augmented hands could pick up. He washed his swallow down with half the drink. Yep, definitely a high alcohol content masked under peaches and raspberry. Not as high as whiskey, not nearly enough to even slightly affect his reasoning, but a few would probably have Pritchard singing on a table. He'd pay to see that.

“Like the suit, by the way,” he said after a few minutes of quiet sipping, “never thought how weird it'd be, seeing you wear one. It's like seeing Malik in a dress instead of pilot gear. Can't get over it.”

Pritchard drained the glass, considered the lonely ice cube at the bottom. C.A.S.I.E was all too quick to point out a slight expansion of blood vessels in Pritchard's cheeks. Romantic. “Mm. Well, Sarif's obsession with impressing London means we all have to suffer. It wouldn't be my first choice.”

Sometime during the drinking, Pritchard had edged closer, closer than he'd usually allow anyone else. Personal bubble had been popped, and instead of retreating he moved his arm to brush the sleeve of Pritchard's suit.

“Looks like he's not the only one trying to impress tonight, Francis.”

To Pritchard's credit, there was no insincere denial, no fumbling for a retort. Just a silence as good as any admission. A sigh, and Pritchard stared down over the railing. Behind them, a different song started, something loud and techno. Too loud in there, too quiet out here.

Warm skin slipped against the back of his hand. Pritchard's fingers found his, squeezed with a cautious pressure.

“So,” Pritchard said, tone light as though discussing the clear night's sky, “please don't crush my fingers with your super-aug strength. I think broken fingers might arouse Sarif's suspicions."

“I'll try and resist the urge.”

No intentions of pulling away or crushing fingers. He closed his eyes, squeezed back. Felt good to be touched again, to feel skin in his hand, breath against the side of his neck. When he turned his head to the side, his nose brushed another – damn, hadn't realised Pritchard got that close – and he nearly startled away. The fingers entwined in his moved to his cheek, steadied him. Pritchard's words ghosted over his lips, something insulting, endearing, something even with all his augs he couldn't hear for the blood pounding in his ears.

Pritchard leaned in, and the kiss tasted of peaches and raspberries.

Tension, coiling inside like tight spring, snapped. One hand went to the back of Pritchard's head, the other shattered the glass as he took the kiss deeper, as he tried to stifle whatever empty longing rose howling from his chest.

His hands wanted to roam, to explore under shirt and down the waistband of those pants, but the kiss broke, and he came back as though doused in icy water, breathing hard into Pritchard's neck. Not in his apartment, or anywhere remotely private, but Sarif's damn party. And he bet if he looked through the glass – yep, several people staring at them. Great. One little kiss and he went to pieces. Some fantastic head of security he turned out to be.

Pritchard took a step back, hair ruffled and shirt dishevelled, like they'd done a little more than just kiss. A few moments of controlled breathing, and Pritchard's hands went to the wayward strands of hair, smoothed them down or tucked them behind his ears. “Well. More enthusiastic than I expected.”

“Yeah.” Should he apologise, even if he didn't regret it? “Uh... you okay?”

“Me?” Pritchard smoothed the shirt back to where it should be. More or less. A glance behind them, at the few people still staring, seemed to hurry it along. “Safe to say this is going to get back to Sarif quickly. Any chance you could throw us both off the edge, land with your shiny Icarus aug so we can stay out of his way for the rest of the night?”

“Tempting, but I have a job to do. Should've thought about that before you tried to seduce me.”

“Tried, Jensen? Succeeded.”

“Whatever.” The howl faded to a slow growl instead. In some alternate timeline he would be dragging Pritchard along the streets to end the night in his bed, but alternate-timeline Adam apparently didn't care about consequences. He did, but not as much as he should. “Shit, I should probably make another sweep of the building.”

Pritchard set the glass on the ground, near the shards of his own glass, and slid a cigarette from the jacket pocket. “You really should. Do your job, Jensen.”A flick of lighter, and Pritchard's eyes stayed on him through an inhale and exhale of smoke. “What time is Sarif letting you go?”

“It's a _party_ , so... late. Or early, depending on how you like to think about it.”

Pritchard nodded, blew smoke out through his nostrils. “I'll be here.”

That did startle him. “All night?”

“Why not?” This time, Pritchard's eyes went to a spot over his shoulder, and the cigarette seemed a little less steady. “I don't think we were done.”

If he had a little less impulse control, he might have pounced at that, started something again and finished it right there. Luckily for the both of them, he could keep some things in line.

The warmth of the room grabbed him as soon as he opened the door. He took one look back, and couldn't bring himself to sneer at Pritchard's cheery wave. The morning couldn't come quick enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Like a lot of things, I posted this to Tumblr waaaay back, so it's a little... unpolished.
> 
> To illustrate how much of a piece of shit I am, I started the next chapter of this. It was only supposed to be one chapter.


End file.
